Not Just A Rat Boy
by seafeather-ono
Summary: A series of drabbles about Peter Pettigrew, and the time before he was a coward of the worst order.
1. First Try

**A/N:** Have a little Pete drabble! The prompt was the first apparition lesson.

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Peter knew he wasn't the brightest marauder. But after six years of keeping up with arguably the four smartest boys in the year, he was no dummy either. By now, Peter wasn't so much keeping up as holding his own.

Apparition was different. He knew it was, he knew it wasn't quite like any other kind of magic. And so Peter had this stupid idea, this hope that maybe apparition would be the one thing he was good at - a place where he could excel. Maybe he'd be the best Marauder for once.

Just as Peter hoped it, he knew it wouldn't be true, he knew he'd struggle more than the others. James'd say it was a confidence issue - that if he stopped doubting himself, then everything'd go more smoothly. Peter wasn't so sure. There were plenty of times he'd attempted a spell, sure he could do it, when suddenly everything'd go boom and there'd be a puff of smoke. Maybe after a while it was hard to tell what was confidence and what was hope; it was hard to have faith surrounded by so much uncertainty.

There were things Peter wouldn't let himself doubt, but schoolwork wasn't one of them. And unfortunately, apparition fell into that category. All night on Friday, he tried to relax, tried to have a bit of fun. But he couldn't seem to laugh properly - all he could see was the drawing of a splinched man he'd happened upon in third year.

Sleep refused to come, so Peter tossed and turned, jolting awake from the occasional nightmare with a yelp he muffled in the pillow. He'd perfected the skill halfway through first year, and now he slept on his stomach automatically, head buried in his pillow.

Saturday morning he huddled under the covers, pretending to be still asleep, while the others trooped down to breakfast. Ten minutes before the session was due to start, Peter started the mad dash down to the Great Hall, quietly joining the crowd of people waiting while Dumbledore messed with the charms that prevented apparition.

Thirty minutes later, Peter was ready to kill the instructor. Could he please just shut it about the three D's already? He was fucking determined, all he was thinking about was the destination - that bloody hoop, and he was being quite deliberate too. Not rushing into it. But five failed attempts into the effort, Peter was concerned. And then he thought of the difficulty he'd had in transforming into Wormtail, at first. It had been hard to block out the doubt, to concentrate just on the feeling of Wormtail and externalizing it. Maybe apparition was more like that. Smiling slightly, Peter, much more calmly, turned on the spot, and feeling a weird feeling like being compressed, disapparited, reappearing in the centre of his hoop. The grin split his face wide, and Peter nearly cheered. Merlin praise the marauders.


	2. Smarties

**A/N:** Oh look! Another tiny drabble! Someone should probably yell at me to work on ALOU. Probably. Please review!

**Disclaimer: **Still don't own Harry Potter.

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The room was quiet. As it was a Saturday morning, this was to be expected – everyone in the first year dormitory was sleeping. Peter had just woken up, surprised at the soft grey light that was filling the tower room – they'd had bright sun for nearly a week now, paired with a biting cold that made any venture outside the castle unpleasant. But today it was snowing, a light, fluffy snow that muffled the noises of the castle. Pete pulled his blankets up to his chin, huddling in the warmth they offered. It was far too early to be awake, and so the boy tried to sleep again, to no avail. His stomach had enough of the nonsense and gave a mighty rumble. Casting a jealous look at James, Sirius, and Remus, all of whom were still sleeping soundly, Peter hurriedly dressed and went down to breakfast. The Great Hall, usually full of people and bustling noise, was nearly empty that morning. A few students dotted the tables, most multitasking some sort of schoolwork with eating their breakfast. It could have been incredibly lonely, but instead, Pete found the change refreshing. He was finishing his second plate of eggs when an owl swooped in and dropped a small parcel by the boy's plate. Shock, happiness, and then a wave of homesickness coursed through him, and suddenly he wanted very much to be alone. Peter grabbed the package and walked back up to the common room, which was thankfully, completely deserted.

This wasn't the first parcel he'd received from home. But it was the first one that wasn't marked with his mother's loopy script. Pete had always been closer to his father, but they _did _things together – went to the zoo, saw a muggle film, went on adventures. It wasn't the sort of thing you could send in an envelope or box. If he were being honest, he hadn't really expected anything from his dad whilst at school, and didn't have any idea what his dad would send him. It was with slightly shaking hands that Peter tore open the paper and open the package to reveal a note and some muggle candy. For Christmas and other holidays, Pete had always gotten wizard candy – chocolate frogs, liquorice wands, and peppermint toads. But whenever he was feeling down, his dad would get him Smarties. It was a silly tradition, but Peter had come to love the small sugar-coated chocolates. In fact, they were probably his favourite candy.

Smiling again, the boy tore open a packet of Smarties, nearly pouring the contents onto the floor when he heard a small noise. Turning round, Pete caught sight of the first year dormitory door swinging shut, and he hoped that James or Sirius had woken up. Of his dormmates, Pete had to say he liked those two the best – they were always fun; planning something or making a joke, and Peter always felt cool when he was with them. The others – Andrew Branstone and Remus Lupin – were much more studious. Branstone seemed to live in the library, and while Lupin was kind, he was also ill quite frequently. Frankly Peter didn't know what to make of Remus, who hung out with James, Sirius and him, often not saying much. So his heart sank silently when it was Remus's voice which quietly greeted him.

"Hi, Remus," Peter said glumly. "James and Sirius still asleep?"

"They are, yeah," the other boy replied, a note of resigned sadness in his tone. He came round to join Peter on the couch in front of the fire. There was a pause, and then Remus asked quietly, "What've you got there?" Something in the other boy's voice made Peter bite back the abrupt reply he'd been about to give and instead reply "Smarties. They're a muggle sweet. Chocolate inside a candy-coated shell. My dad sent 'em me. You want one?" He held the bag out to Remus, who tentatively took a few candies.

He examined the Smarties for a minute, then popped them all in his mouth. "I like chocolate," Remus mumbled, grinning at the taste. Peter smiled back, and propped the bag open between them, indicating they should share the candy. "Thanks, mate," Remus replied. They could've said many more things – Peter could've told Remus his secret belief that Smarties did in fact make him smarter, Remus could've said how he always felt like an outsider; they could've talked about parents and fears but for today this was enough. They would sit quietly for another twenty minutes, finishing the bag of chocolate candies, listening to the snap and pop of the fire. Because sometimes all it takes to be mates, Peter would think later, was sharing a bag of Smarties.


	3. All the Above

**A/N: **This is a tiny little filler bit with some insight into Pete's mind.

**Disclaimer: **JKR owns the HP universe.

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Another year gone. Everywhere Pete turned, people were talking of summer hols; the seventh years of career plans and exam results; of what was happening next. Pete wasn't ready. He wasn't ready for sixth year to be gone, for it to be hols, to be a seventh year in just two months. He wasn't ready for two months not seeing his best mates every day.

He knew it was stupid, being so dependent on his friends. He couldn't help it. But he didn't have to talk about it either - so Pete blabbered to Mafalda Hopkirk in Herbology about the films he'd see with his father over hols; boasted about his perfectly unplanned summer in the common room; and generally hated himself for behaving such a prat. Luckily, everyone else seemed to be too caught up in the end of term bustle to comment on - or even notice - his extraordinary behaviour - though Mafalda did tell him to "Shut it already, or we'll get detention." She apologised, after, but Pete couldn't help feeling he was always being annoying, or invisible, or else both.

Perhaps if it wasn't just the foursome - perhaps if he had something of his own - but that was silly. Pete liked his friends. Liked James and Sirius and Remus, liked being part of the group, even if all his friends were because of those three. And if it weren't for them, perhaps he wouldn't… But he did have them, even if they were being right prats themselves, and sometimes a bit of something wonderful was better than nothing at all. Even a bit of something crap was better, but it wasn't crap, being mates with James and the others. Maybe hols had come at a good time after all - he could clear his head of the silliness and spend time with his da and tease his mum and _not worry_. Even if that was going to be much harder than he'd care to admit.

And so when the last day of term came, as it always does, Pete sat quietly at breakfast, just listening as Gideon Prewett argued amicably about quidditch with his brother. The rest of the morning, Peter was silent, throwing himself into the conversations around him, not letting himself worry for even a moment. And it worked, all the way to Kings Cross, when suddenly there was a flurry of_goodbyes_ and _see yous_ and _owl mes_ and then he was in the car with his parents, driving back home. Sitting in the backseat, Pete thought glumly, _this is going to be a long summer._ He had no idea.


	4. In That Moment

**A/N:** So this is a little drabble I wrote expanding the events which transpire in chapter 3 of A Lack of Understanding, so spoilers! warning.

**Disclaimer:** JK owns everything.

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It was the kind of day you wanted to sleep in and not do much after that. Hot, and sticky; the air enveloping you, smothering you. But Mrs. Pettigrew hated sloth, so she dragged Pete out of bed and into London, though the booklist wasn't due for weeks. "There's certain things you'll need no matter what," she said sharply, and so Pete went along, too tired to whine, and envying his dad the lie-in. They went to Madame Malkins, not that Pete had grown, but his uniform did tend to wear out. They refilled his potions kit, ate lunch, and then Pete had a few hours in the joke shop while his mum did shopping for the house.

It was dark by the time the apparated back, shopping bags bulging. Mrs. Pettigrew was fumbling for the keys so it was Pete who saw it first, the ghostly green skull giving the street an eerie glow. It was Pete who dropped his bags with a crash and rushed into the house, not caring if the Death Eaters were still there because his da was inside and he had to be okay, he had to.

Startled by the crash and pounding footsteps, Mrs. Pettigrew looked up, and saw the Dark Mark. Unlike Peter, she had no hope for her husband, not now, and so she kept her head, setting down the shopping, sending a message to the ministry, then - almost in a daze - carefully carrying the bags inside, Pete's anguished cries breaking the stillness of the house.

He wasn't dead, the healer would explain later - though it would have perhaps been kinder. Mrs. Pettigrew slapped the healer, and might've yelled, but Pete tugged on her arm and they went in to see him. He'd entered a coma - extremely unusual among wizards - and Mrs. Pettigrew had broken down at the sight, her husband looking as though he was sleeping, but unlikely to wake.

Mr. Pettigrew had been tortured, for several hours at least, and somewhere along the way his body had shut down, a "self-defence mechanism." It had minimised the damage done by the curses, but Mr. Pettigrew had still lost far too much blood. Not to mention the lingering effects of the dark magic, which were difficult to deal with on a comatose patient. Pete didn't cry - hadn't displayed any emotion since the medi-wizards arrived at the house. He'd turned quiet and helpful, forcing his mum to eat, only leaving his da when the healers enforced visiting hours.

And somewhere along the way, maybe one week after the attack - or was it two? - Pete shut down. Didn't eat. Didn't sleep. Ignored the rapidly piling up letters left while he was at St. Mungos. It wasn't obvious, sudden, like his da, and so it was weeks before Mrs. Pettigrew noticed. Noticed that her son had withdrawn into himself, had lost nearly a stone in weight; looked nearly as ill as his father. And Peter, who had always understood his father better, rebuffed his mum's attempts to help, with a kind of apathy that quickly became alarming. It seemed like nothing could fix the Pettigrews; could get Peter back to normal. And so they went on, Mrs. Pettigrew worried not only about her husband but her son as well; and Peter, so wrapped up in what had happened to his father that he forgot all about himself. Then summer ended.


	5. What Are Mates For

**A/N: **So I wrote this to explain a bit how Pete gets out of the funk. A bit AU for ALOU.

**Disclaimer: **JKR owns everything

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It was August 15, mid-way through the month. Two weeks till school started. Peter had been in a daze for three weeks, now. And it was starting to show.

He'd ignored the owls that came, sticking them in a drawer and pretending they didn't exist. Pretending there was nothing but his da and the daily trip to St. Mungos. He'd known there'd be Hogwarts students there, doing their internships and possibly visiting family, but he'd been lucky, and thus far, no one had recognised him.

No one had come for him, and he expected it, welcomed it. If he ignored the owls, if he didn't make a fuss, it was like he didn't exist. Like his pain didn't exist. No one would say how sorry they were or look at him with pity. No one would try to make him feel normal again.

* * *

Leighton Pettigrew had always been a strong-willed woman. Her kitchen was clean, her family well-behaved, (in public at least,) and her emotions in control. When Peter was younger, he'd asked his Da if Mum really loved him. And Steven Pettigrew had explained that of course Mum loved him, that she loved them both very much; so much it was hard for her to express. And so Pete learned to look for the little smiles and subtle words of praise.

When her husband was attacked, Mrs. Pettigrew crumpled within those stone walls she'd built; that were so hard for her son to reach through. And though she appeared fine, after the shock wore off - going to work, washing the dishes, doing laundry - inside she hurt just as much as her son.

She, unlike her son, had been keeping up correspondence, had been reading the paper. Saw the obituaries. Realised Peter would never forgive himself, if he didn't pull himself together.

* * *

They'd just had dinner, when Mrs. Pettigrew began. "Pete, we need to talk. What are you going to do come September? You can't go to Hogwarts like this. All silent and not eating. You'd fail your classes." Peter ignored his mother.

"I know you're hurting about your father." Silence.

"It's terrible, what's happened to him. But he hasn't died. He could… he could get better." Peter glared at his mother, then quickly looked away.

"I know, it's not very likely. But it is possible. And you can't, you _cannot go on like this._" A note of iron had entered her voice, and Peter sat up, suddenly more alert than he'd been since the attack.

"WHAT ELSE CAN I DO?" he bellowed, not caring that he was shouting or that his mum was wincing. "It's all RUBBISH, going to school, paying attention in Potions – for what? So I can score well on my N.E.W.T.s? How does that help Da? How does that make him better?"

"It doesn't. It doesn't make him better," she replied, and Peter turned away, disgusted.

"Don't you walk away from me, young man," said Mrs. Pettigrew, and Peter came back, having learned long ago not to ignore that particular tone. "This isn't about your Da, Peter," she went on, her voice a bit softer now. "This is about you. How are you going to live your life? Are you going to let those that attacked your father define it? Become the boy whose Da was attacked, never do anything else? And what about your mates? Have you ever thought that perhaps they ought to know what's happened? Not just because you need the support, but because your Da loved your mates, and maybe they want to visit him as well? Or maybe that your mates need _you_? Yes, your Father was attacked. But it's far from the worst thing that's happened this summer; far from the worst thing these Death Eaters have done. So you want them to win; to get not one life, but two?"

Peter, who had been defiant, his back hard and eyes burning, crumbled as his mum spoke. His stomach roiled and his throat tightened, as he struggled for some way to respond. His eyes darted about the room, alighting on the hunched figure of his mother. His mother, who was so incredibly strong. Who had forced him out of himself. And before he could think further, Peter went over to her, wrapping his arms around her.

"I love you, mum."

And for now, it was enough.

* * *

There was an owl waiting for Peter when he got upstairs, and it was with shaking fingers that he opened it; that he saw his friend's words. And as if on auto-pilot, his fingers found a quill and ink; he was scratching out a reply, watching as the owl made it's way across the night sky.

And watching its progress, Peter realised there was a stack of letters in his drawer he'd not read, and so he pulled them out. And learned that his friend's father was dead. And though Peter cried, sitting there, on the edge of his bed, he felt like himself again. Like he knew his place in the world and what he could do, or try to. And that his friends really did need him.


	6. The First of Many (Secrets)

**A/N: **Another small gap-bridging piece, very internal. I'm writing loads of things right now so hopefully lots more updates soon.

**Disclaimer: **JKR owns everything

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**The First of Many (Secrets)**

Peter didn't know why he wanted to keep what happened to his da a secret, why he was so sure people would treat him differently. No – that wasn't true. He knew exactly why he didn't want everyone to know. But it wasn't a good reason, something he wanted everyone to know. Because he was afraid, that having kept it secret so long, everyone would see his reason shining out, and as much as he wanted to keep this pain private, it would be worse, somehow, for the reason to come out. And the longer he left it, the longer he kept it to himself, the bigger the impact when it came out. If it came out. Because it couldn't. He wouldn't let it.

It seemed as though the secrets he was keeping - from his schoolmates, his friends, even himself - just kept multiplying. That his dad was attacked. Because he was a muggleborn. And that he, Peter, was ashamed of it. Ashamed his father was inherently weak, that someone had exploited that weakness, that it had gotten passed along, to him. That there wasn't anything he could do about it. That he almost wished his Da had died, because then at least he'd be a martyr, then he could properly mourn him. Then it would make sense. But no, he'd been stronger than the Death Eater's spells, and everything was muddled and confused. Because Stephen Pettigrew certainly wasn't fine, but he wasn't dead either, and the healers agreed, he should have died. Should have died. As if they even knew his Da, even knew what they were talking about.

Pete knew he shouldn't be ashamed, shouldn't be wishing his Da had died. That those things suggested something was wrong with him. That he didn't care enough, or right, or about the wrong things.

He was reminded of the owl Remus had sent him, the first owl he'd answered in weeks. Moony had mentioned someone, someone who'd prompted Moony to write him. Someone who probably knew what had happened. His fingers shaking slightly, Peter dug in his trunk until he found his box of letters. There it was. "Wormy, I saw Mafalda Hopkirk today and she said you I don't really know what she was on about, but if you need to talk about you know I'm here for you, don't you?" Mafalda Hopkirk. She had been his partner in Herbology, last year... but how would she have found out about his Da? It was obvious she was keeping whatever she knew to herself, and yet Peter worried. What if she changed her mind? And... as much as he hated to admit it, he owed Mafalda. However she had found out, however it had happened, she had gotten Moony to owl him again. And at just the right time. She'd gotten him his friend, had made it so he could stop whinging and worry about something other than himself. His stomach churning slightly now, Pete set to writing Mafalda.


End file.
